


the duty of love

by Areiton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Character Study, Domestic Bucky Barnes, Domestic Fluff, M/M, POV Sam Wilson, POV Second Person, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Sam Wilson, Sam Wilson-centric, sam is cap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 00:22:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18981379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: You wondered, at first, why he chose you.Bucky Barnes was his best friend, his great love, his north star.And he gave you the shield.





	the duty of love

**Author's Note:**

> IDK, y'all, I had feels.

Here's what Captain Goddamn America didn't tell you--

It's heavy.  

Vibranium is the strongest metal on earth, and it’s light. You picked it up, once, the shield, handed it to Cap as you took your place at his back, and he tossed it on his back, an extension of his own arm, you thought then. 

It was light. Impossibly so. It confused you, then. 

It confuses you now. 

Because it’s yours, and it isn’t fluid, it isn’t an extension of your own arm, doesn’t respond to you the way it always did to him. It feels unfamiliar and unweildy and you think--maybe that’s just the way things are. 

Maybe he was wrong, to chose you. 

~*~ 

You think Steve Rogers had three great loves in his life. 

Bucky Barnes was his first great love, the north star that guided every decision he ever made, the steady bedrock to his life. 

Peggy Carter was his tragic second love, a woman caught in a war that  _ saw  _ him, that trusted him and helped him. You wonder sometimes, what would have happened, if he hadn’t put the plane down in the ice--if Buck hadn’t fallen from that train. If they all went home--which would he have chosen? 

Or would it have been the shield? His third love, the one that shaped the man he became,  that taught him to love beyond the small confines of a Brooklyn boy pulled into a war too big for him. 

You wonder, watching the sun rise and glint and shatter on the shield--you wonder if you could ever love it like that. 

You wonder if you want to. 

~*~

You put on the wings, stood at Steve’s side, and you figured out real damn quick being an Avenger meant everyone had an opinion. First it was just your mailman, dropping your USPS packages and a critique of the way you handled the Doombots in Central Park. Your barista flirting and giggling and telling you you were a hero. Your neice bragging about you to her class, cops hasseling you because if there was something they hated more than superheroes doing their jobs, it was a  _ black _ superhero doing their job. Then it’s the new media talking about you and your military record, about your discharge and Riley’s death, it’s your boss--letting you go because you carried too much baggage--and it’s not as easy to shrug it off. 

That was easier, than this. 

Than the weight of it  _ all _ . You wonder, sometimes, how Steve did it. How he held his head up when everyone was throwing stones and telling him it was wrong. 

You smile at Fox News, you give sound bites to CNN, you ignore the endless blogs and pundits and when you’re exhausted and can’t do any more, when  _ everything _ is never enough--you go home. 

~*~ 

Bucky found the house. 

It’s a small thing in the country, isolated but cozy, close enough for you to fly in without trouble. It’s out of the way enough that no one has pieced together where the new Captain America hangs up his wings at night. You know they will--but you savor the solitude while you can. 

And Bucky has made it a home. It’s reassuring, stepping inside, the scent of fresh baked bread and savory stew heavy in the air, one of Buck’s cats bounding up and twisting around your ankles. Books are piled in stacks on every table and near the couch, and music hums low and soothing through the air as you makes your way to the kitchen. 

Marvin Gaye. Bucky has been listening to him more often, lately. 

You stand in the doorway for a long time, silently watching Bucky doing the dishes and murmuring to Bitch. 

“He isn’t supposed to be on the counters,” you grumble, and Bucky flicks a smile at you over his shoulder. You don’t move, don’t do anything but stare back, steady and bland, because you don’t want him to see how much that smile means to you. 

His expression twists a little, worry shading his eyes and scoops Bitch up with damp hands, passes her to you and you sigh, snuggle into her dark fur. “Bad day, sweetheart?” he asks and you close your eyes and nod. He makes a wordless noise and leads you to the couch, nudges Asshole and Princess aside so you are flanked by cats and brings you dinner and you think--

The world can go to hell, can hate and judge and find you wanting. 

You will keep  _ this. _

~*~ 

Steve Rogers had three great love stories. 

You only had one. 

And you watched him die, unable to stop it, unable to help him. 

Riley wasn’t your north star. He was your world, everything good and bad and mundane. You loved him in that way so few people get--completely, a friend, brother, lover. He was your partner, your shield in war, the arms that held you safe when your nightmares woke you screaming, the grin coaxing you to laugh, the asshole who left wet towels on the floor, and the warm weight in your bed. 

He was  _ everything. _

And then he was gone, and it wasn’t like a bomb going off in your life, so much as an implosion, a black hole that dragged everything in until you were sure Riley’s death would kill you both. 

~*~

You have new nightmares, after you come back. 

The old ones too--the Winter Soldier ripping you from the sky, Riley’s scream cutting off with a sickening thud, Rhodes plunging from the sky, the saltwater choking you on the Raft. 

But there are new ones. 

Nightmares of endless mist and your body dissolving into nothing, dreams of Bucky’s voice, panicked and hurt and forever out of reach, and Riley screaming your name overlaying his until you were sure who was calling you, only that you  _ had  _ to answer. 

You dream of Russian words chanted in a cold cadance, and soft gray eyes cold and lifeless and metal hands around your throat. 

You dream of a house on fire and Bucky frozen and falling under the crushing weight of a shield you aren’t sure you want. 

You dream and you dream and you dream and wake yourself from the nightmares and always--Bucky is there. 

He curls next to you on the couch, and Princess digs her claws into your thigh and his soothing Russian lullaby soothes you into a dreamless sleep. 

~*~ 

Bucky doesn’t fight. Some days, when you come in and strip out of your gear--you see the familiar old longing in his eyes, the itch for the fight battling with how  _ tired _ he is. 

You always feel guilty for that. 

Because he is here, and you think--it would be easier for him to be at peace if he were anywhere else.

Living with Captain America, he will never truly rest. 

You think about it, and sometimes, it sits on the tip of your tongue. The offer to let him go, to reassure him you’ll be ok, on your own. 

You always swallow them back. You are too selfish to voice them. 

He wouldn’t listen or believe you, even if you did. 

~*~ 

This is a truth you know--when you come home, Bucky will be waiting. 

You slip in, and you are bloody and tired, too tired to bother with the Compound and the debrief. Carol had given you a concerned look, like she wanted you to stay and you stepped away from that concern because Bucky was waiting. 

He is. 

He’s sitting on the couch, a book forgotten in his lap and he stills when he sees you. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you say. 

He makes a low, furious sound, stalking across the living room and into your space, but for all of his rage, his hands are gentle, fingers barely there brushes as he traces the bruises, the still bleeding cut on your lip and forehead. 

“Ribs?” he asks, a low murmur and you nod, lean into him as his arm comes around your waist and it’s not what you want, his touch is gentle and caring but it’s not laced with love and tenderness the way you want. 

But as you let him pull you gentle into the bathroom, let him clean your wounds and bind your ribs and wash the blood from your hands--you think this is enough. 

If this is all he can ever give you, it is enough. 

~*~ 

You wondered, at first, why he chose you. 

Bucky Barnes was his best friend, his great love, his north star. 

And he gave you the shield. 

But as you carry it. 

As you struggle under the weight of it, the expectation that comes with it, the responsibilities of it--you understand. 

He would never give this to Bucky. 

He loved Bucky too much. 

You hate him, sometimes, for that--but you understand it too. 

You love Bucky too much to give it to him, too. 

~*~ 

Steve Rogers had three great loves. 

You--you don’t. 

You loved Riley, will love him always, you think. A love written in your bones, so deep and indelible you couldn’t scrub it out if you wanted to. 

And you love Bucky. 

Quiet and grumpy and beautiful and steady--he has become the whole of your world, and when you pick up the shield, you wonder if it’s for the world, or for one man and his three cats and the peace your blood buys. 

~*~ 

The world picks you apart. 

You fight, limp away, sway under the weight of a duty you never wanted, never asked for, don’t know how to shoulder. 

And gray eyes steady you, strong hands--metal and flesh--hold you up, warm arms pull you close when nightmares chase you in the dark. 

You wonder if he stays, because of the shield or because of you, but you never ask. 

The world picks you apart, pries at the hairline fractures the weight of the shield splinter to the surface--and Bucky holds you together. 

~*~ 

You find him on the porch, barefoot and sleep warm, sit close and he leans his head against your shoulder, long hair tickling your bare skin, and the sun rises, and you bask in it, in this stolen moment of peace and quiet. 

“Are you happy?” he asks, and you nod against his hair. 

“With you, I am.” 

He shivers, a little, and you almost pull away, but his hand slips around your waist, holds you still. 

“Are you happy carrying the shield?” 

You pause, and eyes as pale as the pre-dawn sky meet yours. 

“I’m happy you don’t have to,” you say, too honest, too tired to lie. Your breath catches, and Bucky’s smile--

His smile is blinding and beautiful, and you taste nothing but joy on his lips when he kisses you. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell with (at?) me on [Tumblr](http://www.areiton.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
